Chapter Text
Lance stares hard at the pile of red fabric scraps in front of him.
It’s stupid. It is.
He and Keith aren’t friends. Sure, they’re supposedly going to pilot a giant mecha war machine together, but that doesn’t mean they have to get along. Rivalry is working great! Lance would even argue that it makes them both more productive. What’s a little friendly competition?
Of course, there has to be friendship for there to be friendly competition. And both parties have to be on equal footing, also.
We make a great team.
Lance flushes, covering his face with his hands. God. He can’t believe he said that. How dare his brain-damaged ass be so careless. He can’t admit weakness! Keith is his arch-nemesis, and he’s only just acknowledged their great rivalry. How is Lance going to get Keith to treat him like a serious adversary if he keeps saying mushy shit like that?
Mushy shit like… making him red lion slippers.
No. That’s it. It’s not happening. Keith isn’t getting any slippers. That would be — ridiculous, for Lance to make fuzzy slippers for his rival. That would send the wrong message. He’s not doing it.
He gathers the rest of the slippers in his arms — lion colours for all the paladins, orange for Coran, pink for Allura, and tiny little pastels for all the mice (he’s sure their little feet must get cold in this frosty ass castle) — and heads for the door. He trips over the leg of his desk and nearly drops everything, but manages to catch himself at the last possible second, keeping everything in his arms. He finally gets to the sliding door, precariously extending an elbow to press on the lockpad, and —
He sighs, slumping forwards and resting his head on his slipper pile.
Keith is going to get that wounded little pout if Lance excludes him, isn’t he.
Fuck.
Dropping the slippers with an angry huff, Lance stomps back to his desk, scooping up his needle and thread and muttering to himself.
“Stupid chico mójolucho,” he mutters. “Stupid — eyes, all sad and expressive. What a butthead. Ugh.”
Lance’s ears burn the whole time he crafts the slippers. He can’t believe he’s fallen for Keith’s dumbass puppy-dog look that the man hasn’t even made. What kind of rival is Lance? How is he supposed to win their future competitions when he can’t even win the fake ones he comes up with in his head? What, is one crooked grin after a food fight going to ruin him forever? One soft smile and a hazy memory of strong arms carrying him to safety going to erase the (hard-earned!) animosity in his heart?
Bullshit. He’s ashamed of himself.
It’s far past midnight when he finally finishes the stupid slippers. He continues to mutter to himself as he digs around in his closet for some kind of basket to carry everything in — he now has one set of slippers too many to carry in his arms.
Ugh.
He finally finds some sort of laundry hamper — hey, maybe that means there’s a laundry room in this castle and Lance can stop washing his clothes by hand in the dinky little sink in his ensuite — and puts all the slippers in.
He throws Keith’s in more aggressively than anyone else’s, because he’s still mad. He cannot believe himself, truly.
He quietly sneaks out of his room, taking care not to trip this time so he doesn’t wake anyone up. He makes his way over to the princess’ room first, dropping off her pink lion slippers — with glitter on the whiskers — by the door, the tiny mice slippers next to them. He drops off the moustachioed ones he made for Coran next, slowly making his way around to everyone’s room, dropping off their slippers and checking to make sure they’re asleep and okay.
He’s extra quiet around Shiro’s room, listening carefully for the tell-tale signs of a nightmare before sneaking in and out. (He’s still learning Shiro’s tells, but he’s learnt from Marco what not to do to a soldier who’s been through combat and come out leaving parts of himself behind. He knows to watch for the signs of PTSD, and while he doesn’t yet know how to gently push Shiro in the direction of help, in space, he damn well knows how to support from the sidelines).
Keith’s room is last, because it’s right next to Lance’s. He checks behind him to make sure no one sees, and sets the red slippers down quickly.
“Lance? What are you doing?“
Lance startles.
Oh, damn that stupid boy. Of course he was training at ass o’clock in the morning.
“None of your beeswax, Billy Ray Cyrus,” Lance says, straightening up and stepping slightly away from the scene of the crime. “Leave me alone.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“That’s because you were grown in a lab and released in the desert as a social experiment to test my patience.”
Keith blinks. Ha. Got him.
“I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“Exhibit A.”
“Whatever,” Keith says, scowling. “I caught you doing whatever stupid prank it is you’re doing, so undo it.”
“I’m not doing any prank,” Lance says haughtily. “As if I would waste my wonderful prank skills on you.”
A drop of sweat drips down Keith’s hairline, tracing a path over his sharp jawline and down his pale neck until it disappears down his shirt.
Lance does not follow it. He does not. Keith is just so sweaty and gross that he can’t help but notice, is all.
“Did you —” Keith squints, leaning forward. Randomly, Lance feels like he’s on trial. “Did you make me lion slippers?”
“No,” Lance lies, starting to sweat himself. “I found them in my room and didn’t want you or your stinky lion affiliated with me.”
Lance is horrified to see that stupid sharp grin — the same one from the food fight, showcasing horrible and ugly and not at all attractive crooked incisors — spread over Keith’s face.
He’s even more horrified to discover that his throat has gone dry.
Oh, no.
“You did. You made me lion slippers.”
“I did not! I found them!”
Keith laughs, and the sound is bright and loud and makes Lance’s knees weak, a little.
Oh, no.
“They’re very cute,” Keith says, inspecting them closely. That stupid smirk never leaves his face. “I can see you’ve poured your heart and soul into them. I appreciate it.”
“I didn’t — fuck off! There was no heart and soul involved. Only — malice and hatred!”
“The cutest manifestation of malice and hatred I’ve ever received,” Keith assures, falsely sincere. He brushes past Lance to get to his door, and Lance scrambles to put as much distance between them as possible. Keith is undeterred, leaning against his newly opened door as casual as can be.
Oh, how Lance wants to wipe the smirk off that stupid, horrible, unfortunately-kind-of-pretty-if-one-thinks-objectively face.
“Thanks, Sharpshooter,” Keith says, and then he fucking winks, and before Lance can figure out what the fuck just happened and why the fuck his stomach is in knots, his door slides shut and he disappears from view.
Without another word, Lance turns around and stomps back to his room, face flaming, palms sweating, heart beating out of his goddamn chest.
Oh no.
He is so, so fucked.